Delicate As A Flower, Strong As Glass
by outside the crayon box
Summary: For 35 girls, the Selection is the chance of a lifetime. An opportunity to escape the life laid out for them since birth, to be swept up in a world of glittering gowns and priceless jewels, to live in the palace and compete for the heart of the gorgeous prince. But danger looms on the horizon. Some girls take risks. Some girls run. And some girls are very dangerous. *SYOC CLOSED*
1. introduction

"for thirty five girls, the selection is the chance of a lifetime. the opportunity to escape the life laid out for them since birth. to be swept up in a world of glittering gowns and priceless jewels. to live in the palace and compete for the heart of the gorgeous prince."

but tension is ripe. fights break out both within the palace and without. the rebels are growing daring and dangerous. the country of illéa is being torn apart. and the girls of the selection might have more on their hands than simply contending for the prince.

some might risk everything to protect those they love. some might crack under the pressure. and some might turn out to be more than anyone bargained for.

* * *

meet the selected

_\- samantha harrington of allens, two -_

_* iris blanchefleur of angeles, four *_

_\- kori gedman of atlin, three -_

_\- abby boyd of baffin, two -_

_* veronica sanchez of bankston, two *_

_* camila lambre of belcourt, five *_

_* allison yale of bonita, two *_

_*aria dubois of calgary, four *_

_\- coral mcadams of carolina, six -_

_\- allie abbott of clermont, three -_

_\- becca wilder of columbia, four -_

_\- layne abeley of dakota, four -_

_\- charlotte deery of denbeigh, five -_

_\- alicia rivera of dominca, two -_

_\- dylan marvil of fennley, five -_

_\- skye hamilton of hansport, two -_

_\- nikki dalton of honduragua, five -_

_\- heather davis of hundson, two -_

_* alina lampros of kent, three *_

_* eleanor faye of labrador, four *_

_\- hadley durk of lakedon, four -_

_\- olivia ryan of likely, three -_

_* jocelyn traugott of midston, two *_

_* cassiopeia marx of ottaro, three *_

_* hannah girset of paloma, two *_

_* anne mercer of panama, six *_

_* auriella twinpeake of sonage, three *_

_\- nina callas of sota, three -_

_\- claire lyons of st. george, four -_

_\- ahnna pincher of sumner, three -_

_\- liz goldman of tammins, four -_

_\- fawn abnerathy of waverly, three -_

_\- kristen gregory of whites, three -_

_\- massie block of yukon, three -_

_\- meena hearland of zuni, three -_

* * *

**alright.**

**all the characters are in! thank you so much to everyone who submitted! original characters are marked by asterisks, while canon characters are marked by dashes.**

**the first chapter should be up within a week. thank you all for being so patient.**

**_1 / 22 / 15_**

**~ joyana ~**


	2. prologue

_~ once upon a time, in a land far far away . . . ~_

...

_"It's impossible to move on without leaving something else behind."_

It's the first of many irrational thoughts that strike her on the day she gives birth to her first child. Lately, she's been remembering everyone from her past, but somehow she's been able to avoid the one person who mattered the most. It's quite ironic that this is the day she finally allows herself to consider him.

Aspen Leger, the first boy she'd ever loved.

It had been a whirlwind romance, she sees that now. Had she really expected her parents to allow her to marry someone whose existence they barely acknowledged, who would have been even _less_ able to provide for their daughter than they were? It had been a frivolous, childish plan.

It wasn't surprising that her mother and father had jumped on the Selection bandwagon. She'd been blind not to realize that her love was obvious. The fact that they didn't know who the object of her affections was hadn't meant anything. Of _course_ they'd wanted her to marry a prince, rather than whatever piece of lowlife scum she had been seeing.

(God, her mother was a hypocrite.)

She wouldn't have left if it hadn't been for him, though. She'd attacked him (crying and screaming and clawing at him with unpainted nails), when he'd told her she should sign up. She'd thought he was being selfish, ignorant, naive.

But that had been her all along.

She'd done what any rejected girl would do: fallen straight into the arms of anyone who showed her the least bit of attention. She supposes it was lucky that she'd become infatuated with the prince of Illèa and not some street con.

A bitter laugh escapes her mouth and she feels the baby kick.

_"Pain can leave you paralyzed."_

There have been days when she hasn't been able to roll out of bed. Her mind has gone black and her eyes have closed and her limbs have frozen (just like she imagines the corpses of her father and her parents-in-law and Celeste and _countless_ others).

Those were the times when she hated the children in her belly, when she wanted nothing more to overdose on the pills in her locked desk drawer, or to rip her throat open with the razors in the cupboard, or to grab one of the guards' guns and shoot herself in the stomach.

She would have given anything, _everything_, to be buried in the ground with the people she loved.

In the back of her mind, she's still there, still inching her way out of that dark, dark pit. She's never escaped. She doesn't think she ever will.

A tear drips from her eye and the baby kicks again.

_"If he steals my heart, and I steal his, isn't is just the perfect crime?"_

Sort of like an eye for an eye, or a tooth for a tooth. That was an old, old rule, from long ago, eons before the United States of America existed, when the name Gregory Illèa was not even a whisper on the lips of his ancestors. It's not the way things work, not anymore. But it seems reasonably just.

After all, that's what had happened. Aspen Leger had grabbed hold of her most precious organ, and refused to let it go. It was only at his wedding that she'd realized she'd done the same.

It was after the ceremony when he'd cornered her in the bathroom and pinned her forearms to the wall, his breath but a warm whisper against her ear. _I would leave this in an instant. I would run away with you. I would go anywhere. I would do anything. __You love me still, Mer, don't you?_

She would have kicked and screamed, except that his voice still sent shivers down her spine and his beautiful green eyes were boring into hers and she thought she might collapse.

_I love you, but I'm not_ in_ love with you._

It was the only answer she'd been able to think of as she stood twenty feet away from his blushing bride. Whether it was true or not was a question she could ask herself for years. Philosophy was never her strong suit.

Okay, fine. She's been _in_ love with him since the day they met.

After all, is it truly feasible to fall out of love?

The first contraction crashes through her stomach, leaving her breathless.

_"This isn't a fairy tale, not now."_

That's what the Selection is supposed to _be_, right? The chance of a lifetime for that one girl, the one who succeeds in conning the prince of Illèa into falling in love with her?

But what about the other thirty four? What about the girls (who were, and still are, much more worthy of his affections than she is) who desired nothing more than a simple life with the most coveted man in the nation? Where was _their_ fairy tale?

And she's heard the horror stories. Who hasn't?

Clarissa and Laila ran from their husbands just weeks after being forced into marriage. Emily passed away at the hands of domestic abuse. Tiny, Elizabeth, and Zoe had gone in for drugs and destroyed themselves. Kriss and Leah died of gunshots to the head. The verdict was suicide.

And those are just the ones she knows about. There are probably more.

Ultimately, these were all girls who'd lost their own fairy tales. She'd been lucky to find Maxon after suffering the loss of Aspen. Who knew what she would have done otherwise?

_Why _does everything keep coming back to Aspen?

Another contraction hits and she screams and the man of the hour comes running.

_"The world could be burning."_

It's not like she would know. She's lived a sheltered life for the past three years, only leaving the palace to film videos and greet citizens. It's always rushed, just in case the rebels decide to make their presence known. They're unpredictable, and they always manage to stay just one step ahead of Maxon's best-laid plans.

_America?_ he asks, alarmed.

_The baby,_ she stutters.

For a moment, she sees him again. The _old _him. The one who forgot how to kiss every second time, the one who couldn't watch a girl cry without almost crying himself. But then he's back, and she's left thinking she imagined it.

_Right_, he says matter-of-factly. _I'll call my mo -_

He cuts himself off, and she catches another glimpse. This time, it's the Maxon who forgets his mother is gone. It's the Maxon who looked around for his parents after he slid the ring onto her finger, and again after she told him she was expecting his child. But in the blink of an eye, he disappears. In his place is the crown sovereign of Illéa.

_I'll call your mom. Let me get Mary._

She has to refrain from laughing at the irony of it all. Anne is dead, and Lucy married Aspen, and Mary is still stuck in the palace, still her maid.

_Call the doctor first,_ she answers.

_Won't your mother want to be here?_ His forehead crinkles.

_The doctor needs to get here first. That is, unless my mother wants to deliver my baby._ She can hear how harsh she's being, but she doesn't want to apologize.

_If you're sure . . . _He's endearingly bewildered, but watching the king of Illèa question himself gives her a strange sort of pleasure.

Nostalgia strikes, along with yet another contraction.

_"But I am not scared anymore. I will not run."_

The babies are delivered at 2:44 P.M. on a rainy day, and the first thing the doctor says is that it looks as though the female may not survive.

_Good,_ is the word that escapes Maxon's mouth, and she stares at him.

_Excuse me?_

_Well, not _good_, _he blusters, flailing his hands, _but _better_. Better that the girl goes than the boy. The boy is for the Selection. The boy is here to raise our country's morale. You must understand._

_I don't think I do,_ she responds coldly. _These are our _children_._

_Never mind, my dear._

She eyes him suspiciously, but then her mother arrives bearing gifts and flowers and hugs, and the conversation is all but forgotten.

...

There is no announcement about the birth of their daughter.

Maxon insists that it is because she is frail and sickly, and there would be no point in getting others' hopes up when she may not live past her first week.

So the next day, he stands in the corner of the balcony, cradling the girl in his arms.

And Queen America Singer Schreave holds her newborn son up to the sky, listening as the bells ring from sunrise to sunset.

Ever since, that little boy has never held a special place in her heart.

* * *

**i'm so sorry it took me this long to update. but this is the premise. i really will try to update in the next week.**

**reviews warm my heart.**

_**2 / 12 / 15**_

**~ joyana ~**


	3. i ( iris , massie , alina )

_*Iris Blanchefleur of Angeles, Four*_

**"Sit down,** darling," Kim Durham instructs, patting her granddaughter's shoulder. "Gavril is about to show himself. And of _course_ you know what is happening tonight!"

The Selected Daughters of Illéa are to be read in five minutes. Of course Iris is aware of that. It's only the biggest opportunity of her life. To even meet Prince Ahren would be an honor. But to date him, to possibly _marry_ him . . . That would be joy beyond measure.

But Iris simply smiles gracefully and sinks into the couch cushions, tossing a chunk of gleaming red hair over her shoulder. "I'm not even sure why we're bothering to watch," she scoffs. "We all know I'm going to be picked."

"Modesty is a virtue, dear," says Mr. Blanchefleur. "I doubt that the prince will desire a girl who has no humility."

Iris inclines her head and winks. "I suppose not, Father. Although we might as well have already planned my farewell party."

Her uncle narrows his eyes. "Treat your father with respect, Iris."

"_Shh_, Horace," hisses Kim. "It's beginning!" She leans forward, gluing her eyes to the screen.

Gavril marches onstage, clad in a spectacular burgundy suit, grinning broadly. "Hello, Illéa!" he crows, waving one arm over his head in his signature greeting. In his hand, he holds a sheaf of paper and a projector remote. "Now, I wouldn't want to make you wait, now would I?" He pauses for an agonizing ten seconds anyway. A banner unfolds above his head, portraying the crest of Illéa. _The Royal House of_ _Schreave_ is written across the bottom in elegant calligraphy. "And without further ado, in honor of the royal family of noble Illéa, I present to you . . . the Selected Daughters of our country!"

"What do you - " ventures Iris's younger sister, Ella. She's two years too young for the cutoff, and still hasn't forgiven Iris entirely for being allowed to enter. This is reasonable; if Ella had been old enough to submit her name to the lottery, Prince Ahren would probably have proposed to her on the spot.

"_Hush_!" Kim flaps her wrist, beginning her daily rant. "For the love of God, you are all uncivilized cows. I don't know what I did wrong, but He knows - "

"Mother," Mrs. Blanchefleur cautions under her breath. "Gavril's begun reading. We don't want to miss our province. Can you imagine that? If Iris _is _chosen and we don't even know it?"

Kim glowers and snaps her mouth closed, electing to watch Prince Ahren as he bites his lip and listens. His messy blond hair, sun kissed skin, and glittering white teeth just scream sex, at least to Iris. And his eyes . . .

"They're the same color as _yours_, Iris," observes Cherie Blanchefleur, Iris's paternal grandmother. "See, you've already got something in common. Isn't that exciting?"

"We have no idea whether Iris has been chosen, Cherie." But the corners of Mrs. Blanchefleur's lips tilt up, betraying her confidence.

The family waits in tense silence, some sure that Iris's name will be called, some doubtful. While resting, they catch clips of the other girls: Allie Abbott of Clermont, a three with quite large breasts; Becca Wilder of Columbia, a four with stunning green eyes; Dylan Marvil of Fennley, a five with silky auburn tresses.

Then the moment comes.

"Of Angeles . . . Iris Blanchefleur, four."

Cherie Blanchefleur lets out a shriek and engulfs her granddaughter in a huge hug. "You're going to be a _princess_, my sweetheart!"

"We don't know that yet, _grand-mère_." Politely, Iris detaches herself in time to catch sight of Prince Ahren's expression. His posture doesn't change as he nods thoughtfully. She hopes that's a good sign.

"You should probably get to bed," Mrs. Blanchefleur urges immediately. "You're going to need to rise very early tomorrow morning, especially if you'd like to plan a farewell party for yourself. You'll have full of use of our resources, of course."

"Of course," Iris agrees, faking a yawn. "You're right; I am very tired. I'll just head upstairs."

The second she locks the door of her room, she discards her humble clothes, trading them for a tight silver skirt, a bright pink cropped shirt, and black T-strap heels. Quickly tying her hair into a half-up 'do, she throws up the sash of her window, checking quickly to ensure that the ladder is still there. In one fluid move, she descends.

She jogs towards the nearest bar. After all, being chosen for the Selection calls for a celebration.

* * *

_\- Massie Block of Yukon, Three -_

**"No, thank** you," Massie murmurs, shaking her head at the platter of food that is being offered to her. On her plate, she already has a slice of venison and a pile of asparagus (imported specially from Ottaro). That's more than enough.

"Massie, you are _entirely_ too thin," Hilly Faulkner declares.

She bites her tongue so she doesn't lash out at her mother's mother. Hilly means well, but food is a touchy subject for Massie.

"She's _fine_," laughs Mr. Block. "Don't worry so much, Hilly. She's preserving her body image. And rightfully, too. When Prince Ahren falls head over heels for her, she has to look her best. Can you imagine? We're going to have a princess in the family!"

"I'm sure there will be some heavier girls in the group." Mrs. Block pouts and rests her hands on the wooden table. "Don't discriminate."

"_I'm_ not the one choosing the next princess of Illéa," Mr. Block points out truthfully. "The prince is a young boy. I'm sure he will be influenced by body shape. If you don't want to eat, you don't have to." He directs this last statement at his only child, smiling. "As long as you're healthy, that's all that matters."

_I'm_ not _healthy__!_ Massie wants to scream, but she doesn't. That wouldn't be socially acceptable.

Inez, the family maid, enters the dining room, clutching a feather duster. "The Selected girls will be appearing on the television in fifteen minutes, if you are interested. I heard that Miss Massie submitted an application."

"She did, Inez, thank you." It's a clear dismissal. As soon as the older woman leaves, Mrs. Block offers a tight smile and sets her utensils down. "I'm going to go in and make sure we don't miss anything. Inez means well, the darling, but sometimes those immigrants from Whites just don't get it right."

"Now, Kendra." Artemis, Mr. Block's mother, places a comforting hand on her daughter-in-law's forearm. "I'm sure Inez is correct. Don't rush your dinner. We'll all be ready to watch in due time."

"What if we miss the list?" Mrs. Block frets, dabbing at her mouth with a cloth napkin. "This is ridiculous. I'm completely finished with my dinner. I'll just duck into the den and make certain that we aren't missing anything. This way, I'll be able to see Mr. Fadaye's opening speech, _and_ I can call you all in exactly at the right time."

"If you insist, dear." Mr. Block stands and pulls out his wife's chair, allowing her to rise.

"I'll go with you, Mother." Massie carries her untouched portion into the kitchen, where she leaves it on the counter for Inez to wash. The Blocks' housekeeper is probably the only person alive who is aware of just how severe Massie's illness is. But she wouldn't dare say a word.

The tawny-skinned girl enters the living room just in time to watch Gavril Fadaye strut onstage. Although he must be close to seventy, he barely appears a day older than he did at the time of the last Selection.

"You know, Massie, I was four years too old for King Maxon when he chose a wife. But I am sure that Prince Ahren will select you. How could he not? You're the perfect embodiment of a princess!"

Massie's perfectly plucked eyebrows rise. She can count on one hand the amount of times that her mother has complimented her in the last ten years. "Well, thank you. I hope he does."

"Watch, my dear." Mrs. Block points at the screen and raises her voice. "Mr. Fadaye is making the announcement!"

The rest of their family floods in, settling on sofas and armchairs. Mr. Block takes a seat next to Massie and slings a supportive arm around his daughter's shoulders. "Good luck, honey."

"Well, I'm not sure what I'd use that for now," she whispers back. "But thank you anyway."

Gavril Fadaye's voice echoes from the television set. "The Selected Daughters of Illéa!"

She concentrates, trying to commit every face to memory, just in case she _is_ picked. It is always smart to be aware of one's competition.

But suddenly, her province has arrived, and she feels almost queasy. She contemplates excusing herself, but decides against it.

"Of Yukon . . . Massie Block, three!"

A smirk appears on the prince's face, and for a split second Massie is satisfied. But then her stomach growls, her head spins, and, sighing, she pinches the fat on her flat belly.

"You've done it." Artemis kisses Massie on the cheek. "You've been Selected. You're an official Daughter of our nation."

"I am." Massie purses her lips. "I really am."

* * *

_*Alina Lampros of Kent, Three*_

**"Good God,** woman, you're blocking the TV." Mr. Lampros folds his arms. "You know that the best chair in this house is always reserved for me. Don't just assume that you - "

"Enough, please, Konstantine." Mrs. Lampros rolls her eyes. "If Alina wants to use that seat today, let her. This is the evening she'll discover if her future has changed forever."

He takes another swig of alcohol. An entire case of Columbian wine was delivered directly to to the Lampros' doorstep earlier that morning, and Mr. Lampros is already on his third bottle. "No. She needs to move. Next you women will want to take over the house. Stand up, Alina."

"You could be speaking to the next princess of Illéa," Mrs. Lampros informs her husband, a hard edge to her voice. "You may want to take caution."

"Shut your mouth," Mr. Lampros orders, slamming his empty glass onto the coffee table. "Get your ass out of my space, Alina, and go stand behind the couch with your disgusting mother."

She rises immediately, scurrying away. She's learned the hard way to listen to her father before he turns violent. Explaining to a hospital why she had shards of glass piercing her stomach and handprints burned across her cheeks had not been a pleasant experience.

"_Finally_," Mr. Lampros moans, flopping into the chair and pouring more wine.

Behind the couch, Mrs. Lampros smiles ruefully at her daughter. "I couldn't be more sorry, Alina," she whispers. "This is not how my life was supposed to turn out."

"I know." Alina nods back at her mother. "None of this is your fault. You can't help the pregnancy laws."

"I had no choice." Mrs. Lampros's voice is raw. "I . . . my parents didn't support abortions, and I didn't have enough of my own money. Both of us would have been imprisoned for life if I had left him."

"You can't control this. It _isn't_ your fault, Mother. He _raped_ you." Alina's voice is hard.

"Twice." Mrs. Lampros bites her lip and coughs in the direction of her son, who is sprawled on the sofa in front of them, purposely leaving no room for his mother and sister.

"Let's just try to move on." Alina sighs. "You know that the second I get married, you'll be moving into my house, Mom. It's only a couple of years. You'll never have to see either of them again."

"He's my _son_." Mrs. Lampros chances another glance at Shalson.

"No. He's the product of rape," Alina says firmly.

"Technically, so are you," she points out.

"But we're on the same team, Mother. Father and Shalson are sexist, misogynistic beasts."

A laugh escapes Mrs. Lampros's mouth. "Well said, darling."

Alina nods, but grows serious quickly. "Mr. Fadaye's on," she announces quietly. "Let's pay attention."

"I'm hoping for you with _all my heart_."

"Me too." Alina's toes curl against the cold carpet.

Three names are called. In their own way, each woman is very attractive. The first is cute and thin. The next has voluminous black hair and absolutely stunning eyes. The third has _very _ample assets.

"Of Kent . . . "

The seconds between province and name are an eternity for Alina. She inhales deeply. "It's not me, Mom." She already feels the crushing disappointment. "I don't compare to those girls. I can't."

"You don't know that, honey. And I believe in you."

They squeeze each other's hands, and a current of solidarity flows between mother and daughter.

" . . . Alina Lampros, three!"

Something between a squeal and a gasp escapes Mrs. Lampros's throat. "It's you!"

"So should I start calling you _Lady_ Alina?" teases Shalson quickly, a menacing glint in his eyes. He reaches up and tweaks a lock of his sister's dark hair.

"Lay off her," Mrs. Lampros commands. Her voice is stronger than it has been in ages. "You're right; she is a Lady. And she doesn't deserve your disrespect. I will make you pay if you touch her one more time. Do I make myself clear?"

"Sure, _Mother_." Shalson laughs and stretches back out.

"I'm sorry." Alina caresses her mother's arm. "I'll have you out of here as soon as possible, whether I win the Selection or not."

"Of course you will, darling. I trust you more than anything else in the world."

* * *

**quick update, huh? you should probably appreciate it.**

**please answer the following questions!**

**1.) who is your favorite girl out of these three (and, optionally, why)?**

**2.) who is your least favorite girl out of these three (and, optionally, why)?**

**3.) did you like the chapter in general? did you dislike it? please give it a rating from 1 to 10 (1 is the worst, 10 is the best).**

**thank you! i'd love it if you responded to these inquiries, but if you just leave a simple one- or two-word review, i appreciate that just as much.**

_**2 / 17 / 15**_

**~ joyana ~**


	4. ii ( fawn , eleanor , cassiopeia )

_\- Fawn Abernathy of Waverly, Three -_

**"Fawn Abernathy** of Waverly, three." Gavril Fadaye's deep voice echoes through the speakers.

The family is settled in the living room. After a moment of shocked silence, everyone's eyes cut to Fawn.

A man with wavy black hair and rich taupe skin pierces the quiet. "Congratulations, darling! You've done it! You're a Daughter of Illéa. How does it feel?" He shoves the television remote in front of his niece's face.

Fawn fights the urge to roll her eyes. If she is to be a princess, good etiquette is required, so she might as well begin practicing. She will _not_ be the girl who shames her entire caste. "It's amazing, Uncle Carlos," she replies into the makeshift microphone, pretending to bubble over her with exuberance. In truth, she couldn't be calmer. "It's hard to believe that in one week, I'll be entering the royal palace and contending for Prince Ahren."

"You're so serious." Mr. Abernathy laughs. "Loosen up, Fawn. No one wants a princess who is afraid to have a good time."

"Just don't forget to balance it with some intelligence," suggests Shan, Fawn's youngest sister and arguably the nicest member of a family known for its unconditional kindness. "That's one of your best qualities."

Fawn smiles. "Don't I know it."

"Do you see his face?" crows Mr. Abernathy suddenly.

"His eyes are so wide," Jane Horowitz points out. "And looks how he's smiling! You must be something really special, Fawn."

"Oh please, Auntie. He hasn't even met me yet!" But she beams.

Out of nowhere, Jane grows quiet, and the faintest of sighs escapes her mouth. "You . . . "

Fawn scoots closer and embraces the older woman. "What is it, Auntie?"

"It's just that you look so much like your mother. You do know how proud she would be of you, right, Fawn? Her oldest daughter, being chosen for the Selection? Do you know how _happy_ you'd make her? She's looking down on us right now, smiling."

Mr. Abernathy grins, but his happiness seems tired now, almost weary. Losing Suze has taken a toll on all of them.

Of course it's the oblivious Court who speaks. "So, Fawn, are you _excited_? Are you gonna invite us all to the _palace_?"

Fawn clenches her hands into fists, then sits on them. Otherwise, she's pretty sure she'd smack her littlest sister upside the head. "I can only do that if I become one of the Elite, Court."

"Well, I'm _sorry_. How would I know? It's not like I've seen a Selection before, or something."

That's true. But even though Fawn loathes to admit it, there's something about her sibling that she just cannot stand. Maybe it's her piercing whine. Maybe it's the fact that she just _doesn't know when to shut up_.

"Court." Jane smiles compassionately. "I know you miss your mother, but that's no reason to antagonize Fawn. She has some big months ahead of her. Give her some peace."

Court crosses her arms, her shrill voice invading Fawn's ears. "How could I _miss_ her? I didn't even _know_ her."

"For the love of _God_, Court, do you ever have any _respect_?" Fawn stares directly at her sister. "She was your _mother_. Everyone here loved her very much. You don't have to make everything all about you!"

"She's _dead_!" Court bursts out. "My teacher told us that we shouldn't live in the past."

"That doesn't count when your mother is _gone_!" screams Fawn. Some part of her knows that she has just been chosen out of millions of girls to participate in the running for princess of her entire country. She realizes, somewhere, that she is wasting valuable time arguing with a ten year old who clearly doesn't know any better. But another part, a much bigger part, rears its head and prepares to attack Court for ever suggesting that Suze Abernathy was worthless.

"Jesus Christ!" Court erupts into tears. "I'm _sorry_, Fawn! I don't know why you hate me so much! Just leave me _be_!" She picks up a throw pillow and hurls it at the wall, where it slides down and lands at her father's feet. Then she storms off in the direction of the room she shares with Shan.

Fawn groans and watches her go. She doesn't want to give Court the satisfaction of following her and begging for forgiveness, but she knows that it's expected of her. The one problem with being born into the Abernathy clan is their unrestricted affection. Although Court clearly didn't inherit any of that, Fawn doesn't think she herself did, either. But she can feel her family's eyes on her. And as a contender for princess, she know it's her duty to do the right thing.

Running a hand through her thick reddish brown hair, she stands and makes her way to her sister's room. "Court?" she asks, knocking gently on the door.

"Go away!" Court sobs. Fawn can picture her burying her face in the pillow, tangling the sheets around her feet, and angrily banging stuffed teddy bears against the wall. It takes a little girl a long time to overcome her resentment.

"Look, honey, I'm so sorry. I was wrong and . . . " But Fawn can't bring herself to finish the sentence, because she knows she wasn't incorrect, and how can she be required to apologize for standing up for own dead mother?

"Just leave!" Court insists."You're gonna be a terrible princess, Fawn. Everyone will hate you,_ especially_ the prince! I hope you go to the palace and never come back!"

She stands stock still. As rude as Court can be, Fawn has never heard her say something like that. But there's nothing she can do. Slowly, she drags herself back into the living room. "I'm going to go up to bed. Wake me up whenever you need me tomorrow. Good night."

Her happiness at being Selected has evaporated faster than light.

* * *

_*Eleanor Faye of Labrador, Four*_

**"Congratulations, my** darling." With an approving nod, Mrs. Faye claps gently. The large ruby ring (a gift from an extremely wealthy, very contented patron) on her right ring finger knocks against her simple bronze wedding band. "It look as though you're a 3 now!"

Eleanor smiles and sips delicately from her wine glass. "Thank you, Mother. It appears so."

"I remember when I applied for the Selection. I wasn't picked, of course. There was another girl, named Emily Arnold. She was friends with my cousin, actually. She didn't even make it past the first day."

"I do hope that I will achieve more than Lady Emily, then, though I commend her for trying." Eleanor fiddles with her turquoise statement necklace. A bonus of having a jeweler for a mother means that she is regularly outfitted with the newest, trendiest gems.

"As do I." Mr. Faye lifts his own glass, clinking it with his daughter's, then his wife's. "Cheers to the future princess!"

Suddenly, the doorbell rings. A deep chime reverberates throughout the house.

"I didn't realize you fixed that bell, Ainsley," Mr. Faye remarks, smiling.

Mrs. Faye giggles. "Oh, gosh no. I wouldn't have the faintest idea how. I paid one of the boys at the store a little extra to come and tinker with it. Isn't it a nice surprise?" But her face is slightly tense, and Eleanor notices that she twists her ruby ring with a new viciousness.

"You _know_ we don't have the money for that, my dear. We're using everything we have to push Gavin through school."

Gavin growls. "Mom can use the money on whatever she wants. I hate school. And I want to have my own farm anyway. I don't need to get through school for _that_."

"A _farm owner_?" repeats Mr. Faye incredulously. "Whatever for?"

"Because I can." He shrugs. "Because it's interesting. Because I want to. I just do. I don't know."

"You'll grow out of that phase, my dear." Mrs. Faye turns back to her husband. "Anyway, throwing around a few extra dollars can be good for us. We'll feel as though we have something to spare. I hate working in the row with the other mothers. Did you know that Mrs. Toole's daughter just secured a position as a property owner for Strickland Enterprises?"

"But you know that Drey Toole has pull with them. He's the head chef of their kitchens," points out Mr. Faye.

"Property owning isn't any different from farm owning!" cries Gavin.

"Hush," Mr. Faye orders. "Now, Ainsley, the fact remains that you simply can't continue to throw money around this way."

"It doesn't matter anymore! We'll have Eleanor's earnings from now until eternity. Why, in less than a year, we'll be living in the palace!"

"Are you _ignorant_?" demands Mr. Faye. "The - "

The bell rings again.

"What in the world?" Mrs. Faye wonders, checking her watch. "It's almost curfew. Why - "

"It's okay, Mom. I'll go get it," volunteers Merlin as he gets to his feet and jogs to the front door, peeking out the window before pulling it open. Eleanor can tell by the shift in her brother's voice that it's the family of 3s that live across from them. "_Hello_, Mr. and Mrs. Byrnes. Thank you! Yes, of course I will. Have a nice night." He returns with a bouquet. "They're for you, Ellie. From the Byrnes."

"That's _so_ sweet of them," Eleanor gushes, fluttering her eyelashes. "I'll just put them in some water." She leaves to find a vase, but she can hear her parents' rising voices even from across the house.

"_Ignorance_," repeats Mr. Faye, as though he was never interrupted. "King Maxon has issued a decree that 2s, 3s, and 4s will not be compensated for their time in the Selection, while the lower castes will receive very little."

"I suppose that is to weed out the . . . " Mrs. Faye begins weakly.

"That's neither here nor there," Mr. Faye declares. "The fact is that we won't be sent any money. We still have to budget. And to hear that you spent anything on that ring is an abomination. Is my wedding gift not enough for you?"

"No, Richard! Our marriage is everything to me!"

"Are you _sure_?" he says threateningly. "I've seen you with that boy, the one you claim repaired the doorbell. You have to know he is in lust with you, Ainsley. But us? We're the real thing. Don't ruin it."

Eleanor hangs her head. Although she would never say anything, she knows her mother's secret. And it isn't pretty.

* * *

_*Cassiopeia Marx of Ottaro, Three*_

_**I can't** believe they picked me._ It's the first thing Cassiopeia thinks when she hears Gavril shout her name. On television, the prince is smiling and nodding, while her father hoots and hollers.

"I bet you Vincenzo's watching this right now," says Mr. Marx. "He's probably toasting you and howling in that horrible off-key voice."

"I actually thought Vincenzo was quite a good singer," Cassiopeia murmurs. "And I mean no disrespect, but please don't sound so relaxed. He could be gone, for all we know. When's the last time we tried writing to him?"

"I sent him a note last month," replies Mr. Marx. "But I'm sure you have nothing to worry about, Cassiopeia. He's probably very busy. And he's not anywhere near the battle lines."

"Just being in New Asia at all is dangerous," she responds. "He's right on the warfront, Dad. Sleeping in disease-riddled camps, drinking contaminated water, teaching soldiers useless things like algebra and literature. They'll all die anyway. And Vincenzo . . . He'll die with them."

"Oh, don't _say_ that, Cassiopeia." Mr. Marx caresses her arm. "He'd want you to have faith."

"Are you sure?" Cassiopeia raises her eyebrows and laughs bitterly. "Because I kinda think it's rude to be joking while he could be dead."

"Okay." Instantly, he sobers up. "To be honest, I just think it's easier to cope when I'm laughing."

"What about how _he_ copes?" Cassiopeia shouts. "Have you ever thought about that?"

"Every day. But what do you suggest I do, Cassiopeia? Do you have ideas? Do you think I should demand a plane to the warfront? Should I visit and bring him his pacifier? He's a big boy. He can handle himself. And he'd want you to stay in control, not mourn him."

She snaps her gum. "I don't know; I'd think he'd want us to at least acknowledge that he _exists_."

"Why are you so negative today, Cass? You were just Selected. You should be bouncing off the walls. If you invite some of your friends over now, they can be here before curfew. And they could sleep over. Sound good?"

"No, Dad." She leans back. "All I truly want is for Vincenzo to come home."

"You need to get over him!"

She sits up, stunned. Her heavy-lidded green eyes widen. "He's my _brother_, and my best friend in the entire world. Are you saying I should just forget about him? Like you just _forgot_ about Mom?" She's never played the Mother card, not once in her entire life. But she's tired of her father harassing her about Vincenzo.

"_What_ did you just say?" Mr. Marx looks equal parts livid and defeated. But then his face crumples, and silent tears drip from his eyes, and Cassiopeia decides that she has never regretted anything more than this.

"God, I'm sorry," she mumbles. "That was uncalled for."

"Yeah, it was," he agrees. "But the truth is that we just didn't have the money to take care of her." Mr. Marx shakes his head and lets out a puff of air. "Schizophrenia's a difficult illness at the best of times. I know of 2s who became 8s because of it."

"Do you think she's _alive_?" Cassiopeia asks.

Mr. Marx swallows and glances down at the wedding ring he has never removed. "I hope so. I really do."

"Have you ever . . . tried to look for her?" she ventures.

"I don't have much of a chance," Mr. Marx answers. "And would it really be less painful if I _did_ see her one day? On the street, begging, suffering?"

"Maybe not," Cassiopeia admits, leaning her head on her father's chest and wrapping her arms around him. "I'm so sorry I said that."

"I'm sorry about Vincenzo. I know how close you two were. Are."

"I don't know if I should resign myself to his death, or prey that he comes back. Either one takes too much energy out of me. I just wish I _kne_w."

"That could be your request."

Bewildered, she asks, "Huh?"

"At the palace. It's a Selection tradition. If you reach the final twenty, you're allowed a request. Anything you want can be granted. Tell the prince that you want your brother to be returned."

"What if I don't make it to the final twenty? I don't think I will."

"I have so much confidence in you, my darling. You are the light of my life."

* * *

**another quick update. thank your lucky stars, you guys. i almost waited, but i love this story so much that i decided to post!**

**please, please review! it means the world to me. even a quick word will make me happy (and i'll update that much faster).**

**1.) who is your favorite girl out of these three (and, optionally, why)?**

**2.) who is your least favorite girl out of these three (and, optionally, why)?**

**3.) did you like the chapter in general? did you dislike it? please give it a rating from 1 to 10 (1 is the worst, 10 is the best).**

_**2 / 19 / 15**_

**~ joyana ~**


	5. iii ( kristen , alicia , olivia )

_\- Kristen Gregory of Whites, Three -_

**"I don't** think you understand, sir." For the fourth time, Kristen smooths the paper in front of her, then places it in front of her client. "There's a clause that _actually_ _prevents_ the employee from leaving. And if he still chooses to go, you have the full right to rescind his benefits and insurance."

"But that doesn't mean anything! He can still pick up and leave! I don't think you understand how detrimental that would be to our business!"

Kristen wants to rip her hair out. Instead, she settles for running an aggravated hand through her strawberry blonde locks. "I suppose he _could_ do that, yes. But he'll consider the consequences for walking out. He has a family to support, and no one else will hire him if he can't get a recommendation from you."

"I don't think you _comprehend_ this, Miss Gregory! Nothing you have said provides a legitimate reason as to why he cannot just leave our company!" The portly man huffs indignantly. "You're supposed to be a lawyer!"

"Actually, I _am_ a lawyer." _And I clearly have much more business sense than you do,_ she adds silently. "And I do grasp what you're saying, Mr. Hammerstock. But my point is that just because he _is capable of_ leaving does not mean he will _choose to go_. There are others things the human brain considers besides simple impulse decisions. There would be _repercussions_ if he went. Does _that_ make any sense?"

"Yes." He folds his arms and rests his elbows on her desk. "But I need something that will make it physically illegal for him to go at all. This is a crucial stage of the project. We can't lose him."

All of Kristen's muscles tense. "I can't advise this. Creating a contract that gives him absolutely no way out is illegal in itself. Both of us could go to jail, Mr. Hammerstock."

"Are you saying that's not worth it?" he demands.

"Not for me, no," she answers evenly. "If you would like to take the risk with a different lawyer, there's nothing I can do to stop you. But I would like to let you know that if you write that sort of contract up, and somehow manage to convince your employee to sign it, it will be thrown out in court. And you will _still_ go to jail. Yes, I am serious."

"I didn't realize that."

She smiles grimly. "No, I'm sure you didn't. Now, if you would like me to finalize the contract in front of us, you'e seen my quote. If not, I apologize, but you are taking up valuable time. There is an angry client in the waiting room who was supposed to see me half an hour ago."

He grabs the contract. "Can I flip through this and get back to you in a few days?"

"You can do whatever you would like," Kristen replies, "but I'll be leaving to contend in the Selection next week. So if you would like this to happen, you'l have to call me tomorrow morning at the latest. Have I given you my office number?"

"Oh, are you one of the prissy princess types?" He laughs, exposing yellowed teeth. "Never mind. I'll find a real lawyer to help me. I would like my deposit wired back to me before you go."

"That money is not refundable. Have a good day, sir."

"But I - " he sputters.

"Have a _good day_, sir." Kristen presses the red intercom button next to her desk. "You can send Mrs. Woolworth in now, Donna."

Mrs. Woolworth is a peculiar actress with eclectic tastes. She's been a widow for as long as anyone can remember, and some surmise that she has invented her dead husband just to inspire sympathy. Others gossip about her secret rendezvous with both males and females, young and old (only a few believe that there are intimate relations involved, though). She lives in a watermelon colored house on the outskirts of Sumner, and every few months, she makes the journey to a small office in the center of Whites. This is all anyone knows.

Kristen pastes a bland smile on her face and surreptitiously sets the timer under her chair. When it vibrates in sixty minutes, she'll know it's time to come to her senses and shoo her current client back to Sumner, just as she's done since the second time Ms. Woolworth has visited. "How are you, ma'am? What can I do for you today?"

"As well as I could hope to be." The woman extends a weathered hand. Although she appears weak, she shakes firmly. As usual, money slides into Kristen's palm and her second question is never answered. "Now, have you considered the offer?"

Kristen gnaws on her glossy lip. "I have," she finally chooses to reply. _Good__, Kristen. Stay calm and collected. Let her make the first move._

"Tell me what your opinion is. This is your last chance, Miss Gregory. If I were you, I would tell me what I want to hear." There is a knowledgeable glint in the lady's eyes. Over the years, she has mastered the art of manipulating others into doing what she wants.

Kristen's inner dialogue is still running. _Woolworth needs to stay in control. It's her game. Neutrality is key._ "Well, I _was_ wondering why you're so focused on me, Ms. Woolworth. Surely there are better candidates."

"Actually, I can think of none," she responds coolly. "You're educated _and _naturally smart. You're beautiful, you're generous enough, and you don't have a temper. But what makes you invaluable is that fact that you are being granted altogether unsupervised access to the royal palace. You could be _so useful_. You, your family, anyone you care about, will never desire for _anything_ if you will help us."

"I don't understand why you haven't given up on me. I haven't given you an affirmative answer in two years, during which you have consistently visited me and begged for my approval." _Good, Kris._

"We _want_ you. Is that not clear enough? And we are prepared to offer _everything_ we have if you will take on the responsibilities that we've outlined for you."

Kristen swallows and nods at the local leader of the southern rebels. "I accept."

Forty more credits (_that's equal to two thousand, nine hundred and sixty American dollars, _Kristen thinks randomly) land on her desk. "I will meet with you to discuss final terms," declares Ms. Woolworth before she leaves.

* * *

_\- Alicia Rivera of Dominca, Two -_

**Alicia scans** the Yukon auditorium for her friends. Seating assignments for a function like this are nonexistent, and she's forgotten to ask who will be attending.

Luckily, she is found, though not necessarily by the right person. "Well, if it isn't Alicia Rivera!" a voice exclaims.

"It's nice to see you too, Skye." Alicia flashes her biggest competition a cool smile.

In the acting world, the two young women audition against each other for all the largest roles, neither continuously coming out on top. The media is constantly ripping into their relationship, trying to force them into denouncing the other in public (neither of them ever has). Fans love to ask how they feel about one another, waiting for the day when one will give a derogatory answer. And now they'll have something else to compete for: the prince of Illéa.

"Come watch with us!" Skye Hamilton grabs the sun kissed girl by the wrist and leads her towards the VIP section. Alicia settles in the midst of three others: a smiling blonde, a plastered brunette, and a fair girl with expressive blue eyes. "We'll all be part of the Selection, so isn't it nice to get to know each other now?" Skye flaunts her million-dollar grin. "Now, _Leesh_, this is Heather Davis. She's been nominated for three awards for her lead role in _The Reflex of Revenge_, and Danny Meander (you know, the famous film director?) has been chasing after her to star in his new movie. And this is Abby." She pauses. "She's been a little upset since her aunt was arrested for assumed treachery. She wasn't convicted, though, so it's okay." She smiles brightly. "Abby's been nominated for _Terminal Retribution_. That film was _amazing_, actually. Abby's character had cancer, and she falls in love with a boy. But it turns out that she's only using him so he'll support her family after she dies and . . . Well, I wouldn't want to give too much away! But it was _incredible_. And _this_ is Veronica."

Alicia zooms in. Of course she's heard of Heather Davis and Abby Boyd. Both are A List teen actresses, even if they don't quite match up to Alicia and Skye in terms of fame. But she's never come across a Veronica.

"Um, I'm sorry," she says politely. "But I don't think that we've ever met. I'm Alicia Rivera. What have you been in?"

"I was actually in _Infinity_, _Death or Glory_, and _Doubles_. But I'm only nominated for my supporting role in _Goldberg_. I played the brother." Veronica ducks her head.

"The brother? Was your hair shorter then?"

"No. Um, actually . . . I was a boy."

"Yeah, you just told me you played a boy." Alicia snickers. _Is she daft? That would explain why her name has never reached my ears._

"No. I _was_ a boy. Actually. My birth name was Vernon Sanchez. Now I'm Veronica."

"_Oh_!" Alicia gasps. "Vernon Sanchez! Wow, it's so nice to meet you!"

"Call me Veronica, please," the girl insists.

"But you're _Vernon_. Everyone knows Vernon Sanchez," Alicia argues. "Why would you change your name? That's like writing _A History of Illéa_, and then just becoming a new person right after you wrote it. No one would ever give you credit! Now that you're Veronica, no one's ever heard of you."

Veronica's blue eyes turn cold. "Actually, everyone who has heard of Vernon Sanchez has heard of Veronica Sanchez. _Nothing_ has changed except my physical appearance and my name. I am the exact same person inside. I'm the exact same actress. And you would do to have some respect, _Alex Rivera_."

"My name is actually Alicia."

"Yeah? Well, my name is _actually _Veronica." Her smirk is smug.

"Shush!" Skye hisses. "I have no idea what you're fighting about, but break it up! It's about to start!"

"No!" Veronica exclaims. "I can't be _near_ this girl! She's a toxic bitch."

Abby lifts her glass and slurs, "I'll drink to that."

Alicia grits her teeth. "This is ridiculous. I haven't done one bad thing to any of you. If I could have a drink, please!" She directs the last bit at a passing waiter, who reluctantly hands her a fluorescent green martini topped with soda foam and a lime. It takes her ten seconds to down the entire thing, which she does before turning back to the other girls. "I'm sorry if I _accidentally _offended you, _Vernon_."

"Do you _see_?" Veronica jumps to her feet. "This is the kind of shit I deal with every day, and I'm sick of it. I shouldn't have to cope with this at my own goddamn show."

"Last time I checked, this isn't _your show_, _Vernon_." Alicia giggles. "In fact, you could even say it's mine, considering I'm up for nine awards."

"Let's see who wins, then, shall we?"

"Shut _up_!" Skye demands.

In the end, it's Heather and Skye who are victorious. Each come out with four trophies, while the rest are given to the older generation. Just as Alicia is about to flounce her frilly white dress and leave, a photographer approaches. "Would you like a picture together, ladies?"

"Of _course_!" Alicia gushes, shooting the evil eye at Veronica, who has opened her mouth to argue.

The photo that is featured in the classy magazines portrays the five young actresses standing in a line, beaming at the camera. The image in the tabloids is, for once, considerably more realistic: Skye is tossing her billowy hair, Abby's eyes are half-closed as she trips over the hem of her burgundy tapework gown, Heather is checking whether the other four are ready, Veronica's cheeks are red with anger, and Alicia is scowling.

None of them see this picture until they are safely situated in the Selection. The ensuing fight is not one that anyone will ever forget.

* * *

_\- Olivia Ryan of Likely, Three -_

**In the** best of times, it is difficult for Olivia to control her temper. And this is not the best of times. "Holy _shit_. How complicated is it to say that you will love her forever? _Cut_!" she demands.

Gregor Abel moans. "Harder than you think, Miss Ryan. I am trying to evoke _meaning_, to cause the audience to feel my true _anguish_ as she leaves for good."

"How about you try to _do your job_?" she screams. "You are to _listen_ to me and _follow my instructions_." Olivia punctuates the end of the sentence with a harsh snap of her fingers. "If you want this movie to be a success, you adhere to my orders. Do I make myself completely clear?"

"Yes, ma'am." Mr. Abel is the wealthiest actor in Illéa, _and_ a 2, and even _he_ bends to her commands. After all, Olivia is his parallel, the most renowned film director in the country.

She sighs, but can't resist smiling. "_Please_. Do it again. And I can't believe I'm saying this, but _without_ feeling this time. Just say the lines."

The prop specialists sprint to reset the scene. They replace the shattered glass on the floor with a new porcelain lamp, pour more water into the vase of wilting flowers, and turn Amelia Greene to face her ex-lover.

"I . . . will . . . love . . . you . . . always . . . and . . . forever," Gregor Abel intones flatly. "A . . . thousand . . . years . . . may . . . come . . . and . . . go . . . but . . . the . . sun . . . will . . . still . . . die . . . every . . . night . . . so . . . the . . . moon . . . can . . . shine . . . and . . . I . . . will . . . still . . . love . . . you."

_I asked for that, _Olivia reflects. But her exasperation is still clear. "Okay. Let me rephrase, Abel. You will say your lines _correctly_, or you will be booted off this set. How's that?"

As expected, the next take is flawless.

Ninety minutes later, the day's filming is finished. Olivia lingers on set under the pretense of fielding press questions and helping with some quick filtering. Truly, she is stalling. The last time she departed at the same time as everyone else, she was pulled into a back room by Abel. A pleasurable hour ensued, ending with a shirtless, panting man and a soaking wet, naked Olivia. She wasn't planning on losing control like that ever again.

But then there was the lunch break. She had been eating her salad, minding her own business, when Gregor's fluttering kisses sent her heart racing. So the day after that, she'd sneaked up on him while he was dressing and awarded him with an extremely sensual massage. All their little moments culminated in yesterday, when he'd taken her with hard, passionate thrusts on the rafters above the stage.

But now the power balance between the two is completely uneven. Every time Abel sends her his charming, white smile, her heart melts. And Olivia senses how happy he is whenever she approaches, clad in nothing but her classic outfit of ripped skinny jeans, a tight peplum bustier, and towering heels.

It's not that she hasn't gone through the whole sex thing before. Been there, done that. Many times.

But there are also things Olivia hasn't done, including working directly with the object of her affections, who just happens to be more than fifteen years her senior. It's not that she isn't happy about what happened. In fact, she has a feeling her life wouldn't feel complete without him. She is pretty sure that she would suffer through many more long, uncomfortable nights. And the days she'd spend on set would be torture.

And Olivia's lucky. She knows hundreds of girls who would give all their families' money, their left arms, and a blood sacrifice if it meant they could fuck Gregor Abel _just once_, _please_. Olivia's gotten much more than once. And she's loved every second of it.

But she's also in enormous trouble. Because now she's been Selected. The Illéan officials have every right to conduct virginity tests. And if they do . . . it would be treason. Especially when they found out that the person who she'd last fucked was none other than Gregor Abel. The papers would have a field day. Both she and Gregor would be executed. Life would go on, for everyone but them.

_Well, there's nothing I can do about it now. Might as well live it up._ Olivia laughs at the plight she's gotten herself into. Then she waves goodbye to the extras and disappears out the side door. As she expects, he's waiting for her.

"I was wondering when you'd show up," he mumbles against the shell of her ear.

"We could be killed for this," she informs him.

"It's worth it, Olivia," he replies without missing a beat, before he ravishes her on the hood of his car.

* * *

**my chapters are getting longer and longer, it seems. i should probably try to shorten them. does that sound good, y'all?**

**as usual, the questions. please do review! i read all my reviews a billion times; you guys have no idea. and i will try to incorporate everyone's suggestions.**

**1.) who is your favorite girl out of these three (and, optionally, why)?**

**2.) who is your least favorite girl out of these three (and, optionally, why)?**

**3.) did you like the chapter in general? did you dislike it? please give it a rating from 1 to 10 (1 is the worst, 10 is the best).**

**_2 / 21 / 15_**

**~ joyana ~**


	6. iv ( allison , kori , charlotte )

_*Allison Yale of Bonita, Two*_

_**I have** to make that donation before the palace official comes,_ Allison reminds herself. _It's going to be my last chance. Then they're going to take me away from everyone and I'll never see my friends again and . . . Holy shit, Allie, calm the hell down. It's not a big deal . . . Crap! I _really_ need to make that goddamn donation._

Allison groans and whacks herself on the forehead with her palm. She knows that she can't drive herself to the charity event. What if she stops at an intersection, and someone looks at her? Then she'll have to decide whether to smile back, or stare straight ahead, or rummage through her bag. But what if the light turns green and she misses it? It would be the most embarrassing thing in the world if someone beeped at her for that. But if she asks her father to bring her, she'll be the Selected girl who can't go anywhere alone.

The opposite is true. Allison actually prefers to be alone. Then she can't make a fool out of herself.

_Shit, Allie, stay on track. The donation. Right. Okay._

Nodding firmly, Allison rolls out of bed and plods over to her closet. But she can't find her favorite gray top. Briefly, she considers rummaging through her hamper. But then she spots the shirt. It's draped over a chair, half-hidden under a stack of pajama pants. It's wrinkled, with a mysterious water stain on the bottom hem. Allison knows that she should probably ask the housekeeper to wash out the mark before she leaves the house. But what if the maid asks how it got there? Ha. There is no way Allison is dealing with that.

She shimmies into a pair of blue skinny jeans, and slips beige flats onto her feet. Then, pinching the dirty trim, she yanks the top over her head and tucks it into the jeans. Can anyone see the stain? She can't.

But now Allison is sure that her pants aren't flattering at all. She's gained three pounds since last week, and her weight hasn't fluctuated that much since she was sixteen. What if her thigh fat is bulging? She spins around to view herself from the back, craning her head to examine her legs. She hopes she looks fine, but she isn't positive. Maybe she should change. But if she puts on different bottoms, or even a skirt, then she won't have time to make it to the charity office and still return in time to meet the palace official.

No. She'll have to deal.

_Okay, Allie, car keys. Come on._ Inhaling deeply, she heads out to the driveway, where she's seized with a last-minute urge to run back inside her house and never come back out. What if the neighbors congratulate her? She won't know what to say. She'll have to command herself to answer in simple, one word sentences. Then she'll -

"Allison Yale, the newest Daughter of Illéa! My goodness, child, you've grown so much. I remember when you were just an infant. Your older brother wanted to push your stroller to the end of the world. It made him feel like such a big boy. But how _is_ Mitch? Is he married now? You'll simply have to come over before you leave for the palace, darling. We have so much to catch up on. It feels like we haven't seen each other in just forever."

_Fuck,_ Alison thinks. Mrs. Norris is her favorite neighbor, but only on the good days. When Allison is in this mood, the African-Illéan lady is simply talkative and obnoxious. But she has to say something. Otherwise Mrs. Norris will think she is psychotic and weird and completely unstable.

"Hi, Mrs . . . Mrs. Norris. How - how are y - you?" Allison doesn't mean to sound so nervous. Usually, in fact, she manages not to. Sometimes, she is capable of surviving the whole day without stammering once. But this looks to be one of those times when she stutters on every other word.

"There's nothing to be nervous about, darling." The policewoman caresses Allison's shoulder. "You're going out to meet the palace official, right?"

"What?" Allison looks around. Sure enough, a shiny white car is perched at the end of the Yales' driveway. The lights are still on and the engine is running. "Oh, gosh. Thanks, Mrs. Norris."

If she was normal, Allison could simply jog down the road and greet the person. Instead, she shudders where she stands, waiting for them. Eventually, the official seems to decide that Allison isn't planning on moving.

The man strolls towards her. "Would you be Allison Yale?"

"That's m - me. Can - can I h - help y - you?" _Way to sound like an absolute ass, Allison,_ she scolds herself.

He looks at her strangely, as though she can't possibly be the beautiful girl featured on the cover of her application. "I am Edison Rogers, here to help you prepare for the Selection. Would you mind going inside?"

But Allison can't budge. She's shivering now. She detests strangers. If this is what the Selection will be like, she's not sure she'll be able to participate.

* * *

_\- Kori Gedman of Atlin, Three -_

**"Goodness gracious,** Kori, they're here! There's a huge limousine parked outside, and they're . . . walking up the steps! Oh my gosh, they're about to walk in. Sit down, Kori, look like a lady. Take some of that damn eyeliner off; they'll think you're into those horrible satanist bands. The Veil Piercings and the Dancing Panics and the Slipping Knots. And that skirt makes you look like a _dominatrix_. Fix yourself, young lady! You are a disgrace to the Gedman name."

"Please, Mom, you need to breathe, okay?" Kori laughs gently. "I know you're nervous, but it's alright. If the prince doesn't like me for who I am, it's better he realizes it now than once we're married."

"It's better that you quench your ridiculous music obsessions!" shouts Mrs. Gedman. "I am going to tell your Aunt Missy that if she takes you to one more Days of Green concert that she can just - "

There is a loud, important knock.

"For . . . that's them. Sit up _straight_, Kori, and be _polite_, if you don't mind. There will be none of this punk-ass business. If I hear one fresh comment come out of your mouth, I will follow you to the palace and smack you silly."

"You don't have to _hover_," snaps Kori. "I'm seventeen. And why the hell would I be rude to a royal official? Don't you think I know better than that? Are you under the impression that I don't have a _lick_ of common sense?"

"This is my _job_!" replies Mrs. Gedman. "Don't you understand that I want you to do your best? That I want you to _succeed_?"

"I don't think you _understand_!" Kori howls. "I've done exactly what I wanted. Did you know that my classroom has the best grade point average in the entire school building? Since I was _fourteen_? The Selection doesn't define me."

"It _should_," Mrs. Gedman argues forcefully, crossing her arms over her chest. "This is your shot to marry the _prince_ of our _country_. Why are you not excited?"

There is more pounding.

"I'll get it!" calls Aunt Missy, racing for the door. Her brown hair tumbles out of its spiky bun and crashes around her shoulders.

Mrs. Gedman throws out her arm, and her sister-in-law skids to a stop. "No," Kori's mother says sweetly. "_I'll_ get it. I'll thank you to return to your room, Missy."

"You need to loosen up, Adrianna," Aunt Missy commands. "I understand Jack is gone. He was my brother, not just your husband. But it can't take over your life."

"You've forgotten about the door," Kori points out, standing up and answering it.

The man on the other side is ruffled and angry. "It is not appropriate to allow a royal official to wait in the cold," he states.

"I apologize, sir." Kori lowers her eyes and curtsies politely. She detests when others think badly of her. "Please do come in and find a seat, and I will boil some tea."

Mrs. Gedman rushes over. "Yes, yes, come. Let me take your jacket."

Wary, he hands over a navy blue overcoat. The golden Schreave insignia is branded on the pocket. "Now, I am Mr. Graffman, and I am here to ensure that there are no . . . mistakes. Which one of you is Kori Gedman?"

"Me, sir." Kori brushes a lock of wavy blonde hair off her cheek.

"Please, excuse this, sir," Mrs. Gedman begs. "We've been very . . . disorganized lately. Ever since my husband passed, we've been trying to . . . "

Mr. Graffman fixes the woman with a cold stare. "If you could leave us, I have some matters to discuss with your daughter."

* * *

_\- Charlotte Deery of Denbeigh, Four -_

**"They're coming** today!" Charlotte squeals happily as she pours milk into her cereal. "Only six more days, and I'll be moving into the palace!" She hums as she grabs a spoon and slides into her seat.

"Someone's excited," Jeff Clipping observes, squeezing her shoulder. He is Charlotte's maternal grandfather, and she trusts him more than anyone else.

"Of course I am," she agrees warmly. "Don't tell me _you_ don't want to marry the prince."

Jeff winks. "Ya got me, hon."

Charlotte looks around, taking in the familiar linoleum, the worn granite counter, and the peeling paint of the cabinets. She'll miss this when she competes in the Selection.

"Hey," Della Clipping murmurs. Della is Jeff's daughter and Mrs. Deery's older sister. During stressful situations (and preparing Charlotte for the Selection definitely qualifies), she boards with the Deery family. "Don't worry, Char. We'll write each other letters every day. And we'll send you pictures."

"I know," Charlotte responds. "It's just . . . this is the only place I've ever been."

That's not rare for someone of her caste. Most 4s stay in one home their entire lives. The majority of houses remain in families for several generations. In fact, the 4s generally have the worst Selection experiences, overall; though that streak was considerably broken when Queen Amberly won King Clarkson's hand in marriage.

"I applied for the last Selection," reminisces Della. "I wasn't picked, though. It was Reeli Tanner. She was sent home the very first day. What a waste."

Unfortunately, this awakens one of Charlotte's two worries about the Selection. What if her family thinks less of her if she fails? "I'm sure she _tried_, Auntie. It isn't her fault that she wasn't the girl the prince was looking for."

"I suppose not." Della's voice has grown hard. "But at the same time, I'm sure there is _someone_ from this province who could have done a better job of honoring us."

"Don't be bitter, Auntie. What's done is done. Let's just be thankful that I have the chance to make history." Charlotte doubts that she will be the one to marry the prince, but a little confidence never hurts anyone.

"That means you should get ready. I doubt you'll be meeting the official in your pajamas. What an impression _that_ will make."

"Sounds good to me," she jokes. But when Aunt Della frowns, Charlotte sighs and resigns herself to the inevitable. "Alright, I'll get Mom. I think she bought me a new dress."

"_That's_ my girl," Della nods sternly, taking Charlotte by the wrist. "I don't want to pressure you, honey, but you stand such a good chance. I don't want you to ruin it for yourself."

"Of course not." Charlotte fakes a quick smile and jogs up the stairs, meeting Mrs. Deery in her modest bedroom. "Where did you put the dress?"

"I actually got two." Mrs. Deery holds up a pair of gowns. One is a white eyelet, cinched with a thin black belt. "You'd wear this with my black boots, I think. Now, here's the other." This one is a chiffon sundress. Charlotte's kitten-heeled sandals rest on the ground beneath it. "It all depends on how you want to present, dear. Sophisticated or innocent?"

"Sophisticated," Charlotte elects.

It's at that moment that Della glances out a window. Her fair cheeks turn pale. "It's your big moment, Char."

Mrs. Deery whips her head up. "They're here already? I'll go answer the door. Change quickly, Charlotte, and meet me down there. This can't go wrong. Who knows whether this person will be reporting back to the prince? If this is an unofficial test, you need to be ready. Tie your hair up, half-back. You can even wear my hibiscus earrings. Auntie Della will help with your makeup. Your nails are painted, correct? I'll stall them. Come on, then! Get to work!" She races down the steps, and Charlotte can hear her mother's voice floating pleasantly as she makes small talk.

Charlotte doesn't like to be rushed, but she knows this is crucial. In the Selection (and in life, really), everything will be a test. And she needs to ace it all.

* * *

**i don't particularly like this chapter. i think it's a little uneven and not on par with the other chapters. but i needed to post something before the next two or three chapters, which will be pretty important.**

**also, a bonus: before the girls arrive at the palace, should i include a chapter about the prince's opinions and feelings? it'll have some insight into the royal family's life. i have most of that written out, but i'm not sure if/when to post it. thoughts?**

**alright. questions. please review with the answers (or without them, whichever).**

**1.) who is your favorite girl out of these three (and, optionally, why)?**

**2.) who is your least favorite girl out of these three (and, optionally, why)?**

**3.) did you like the chapter in general? did you dislike it? please give it a rating from 1 to 10 (1 is the worst, 10 is the best).**

**_2 / 25 / 15_**

**~ joyana ~**


	7. v ( nina , heather , aria )

_\- Nina Callas of Soto, Three -_

**"Ha! You're** _kidding _me!" Celia Callas exclaims, flipping her voluminous brown tresses out of her face and grinning. Her teeth are wide, white, and set off by her gleaming sepia skin. "She would _never_ say that. But I'm sure she knows. How couldn't she?"

On on the other side of the ballroom, Isobel Callas allows a tall, engaged serving boy to press his lips against the back of her hand, then whisk her into a fox trot.

Next to the fully stocked bar, Mrs. Ama Callas widens her obsidian eyes as she converses quietly with the governor of Soto. They speak in hushed, lilting tones, casually sipping from each other's drinks. Their 'secret relationship' would have been plastered all over the tabloids if Governor Curio wasn't openly seeing another man.

Mr. Archer Callas is immersed in an intense round of Belcourt Hold 'Em, a spin-off of an old American poker game. Mr. Callas downs a shot, slaps a handful of chips down, and laughs. His coworkers watch disbelievingly as their usually stringent boss bets almost all his money.

In the corner, Nina stands alone, biting her plump lips and observing the action. Young pairs whirl on the dance floor, while older couples hold happy discussions on the sidelines. Everyone is enjoying themselves, except for Nina.

And this entire _party_ is for Nina. After all, she's the one who will be departing for the Selection. She should be receiving all the attention. But no one will even notice if she disappears.

Nina supposes that she likes it that way. If she was popular like her sisters, all eyes would be on her, constantly. There's no way she could ever handle that. But at the same time, it might be nice for others to look _at_ her, instead of _through_ her. Just once.

The problem is, in order for that to happen, Nina will have to hike up her tight black skirt and march onto the floor. She would have to smile, and curtsy, and extend her arms. And the other girls would form a circle, and everyone would dance. It's a Soto tradition at any farewell party.

Nina's parents tell others that their youngest child is smart but shy. It's true, but there's more to it. It's that Nina is so _awkward_. She can't help it. She never knows what to say, or when. She laughs too loudly, for too long. Her smile is a touch too wide, her eyes a little too bright. Her clothes are too loose, her hair is too frizzy, and her eyes focus on the floor. She can't help it.

Nina doesn't believe that anything is _wrong_ with her. _I'm an introvert is all,_ she tells herself. _Social situations aren't my thing. I'd rather be inside, with my doctorate cases and my books. That isn't a problem . . . is it?_

It will be, though. When Nina leaves for the palace, it'll become a huge issue. The Selection will involve dates and festivals and entertainment. She'll have to be polite, considerate, and happy. She won't have a second to take a break.

Nina knows that making her way to the floor is the way to solve her timidity problem. No one will think twice of it. But instead, Nina's feet are glued to the floor because there are so many flaws in the plan. She might walk out there, and no one will notice. She'll just be standing, alone, amongst dozens of people having the time of their lives.

But she needs to take charge. Just once, Nina wants to be the star. All her life, she has detested women like her sisters: elegant, funny, and charismatic. But now, she's going to _be_ one of those girls. She'll take up the room.

Sucking in a huge breath, Nina fits her feet back into her glittery silver pumps and pushes through the crowd.

Voices hush. Lips curve up. Subtle fingers point to the girl in the sparkling peplum gown. When Nina reaches the center, she lifts her arms and speaks the word that will change her: "_Alégrate_!"

_Rejoice_, for Nina Callas is regaining control of her own life. She will enter the Selection. She will win at something that matters. For the first time in her life, she will truly succeed.

* * *

_\- Heather Davis of Hundson, Two -_

**Most electronics** are banned in Illéa. Portable computers, smartphones, and tablets ruled the lives of the Americans, Chinese, and Russians. Even now, most of West Africa suffers a perpetual state of warfare, using high-tech weapons and sensory trackers.

Three generations ago, King Weston decided enough was enough. He ordered a massive eradication of all technology that wasn't completely necessary. Some 2s possess desktop monitors, which are only usable through hard drives connected to Illéan national servers. Several families own flat-screen televisions. A few 3s have basic cell phones. But a person caught with anything else can be found guilty of treason.

One of the only things that truly angers Heather is the amount of crimes that are labeled treason. Anyone who dares to speak out against Illéa? Anyone who needs to pay an emergency visit after 10:00 at night? Anyone who succumbs to sexual desire before filling out a marriage certificate (which, in certain provinces and castes, can take up to a year)? Under the law, all of these people can be (and are) imprisoned or killed.

Angrily, Heather pulls a compact disc out of her sock drawer. It's a recording of an old band, R.E.M. She isn't sure what the letters stand for, and most of the time she has no idea what the singer is speaking of. But all the same, she enjoys listening to his voice.

She slips the disc into some sort of silver device. Heather's paternal grandmother passed it down before she died nine years ago, and Heather has treasured it ever since. But it was only seven months ago that she discovered what it did.

_Leave the road and memorize_  
_It's like the past before my eyes_  
_None of this is going my way_

_Find The River_ is Heather's favorite song. It's not Illéan propaganda, like everything else. She doesn't know _what_ it is. But goddamn, is it beautiful. She hums along as she prepares for her party.

As the successful only child of wealthy parents, Heather is not only used to festivities, she loves them. It's the beautiful gowns, the flowing hair, the dancing, the beaming. It's the exuberance and extravagance. It's almost an adrenalin rush.

Plus, there's a gorgeous floral dress that she's been saving for this exact moment. It's pink, purple, silver, and drenched in glitter. It matches the gunmetal gray heels she received for her last birthday, and she even has a crown-shaped ring that fits right in. Peering in the mirror, Heather forces amethyst studs into her ears, then applies mascara and lip gloss. Her nails were painted lavender in the spa yesterday.

Heather lives for compliments. As she poses in front of the mirror, with her light blonde hair an artful mess, she rates herself a nine point four, which should be more than enough to blow everyone else out of the water. After all, she can't fall behind at her own farewell bash.

"Auntie Deirdre!" she calls, tripping down the stairs in her towering shoes.

"Yes, honey?" Although Heather's mother is long gone, Deirdre Mads is a flawless replacement. The two actresses were born five years apart, and were best friends until Mrs. Davis died of ovarian cancer. Sometimes, when Aunt Deirdre is around, it's as though Mrs. Davis never left at all.

"I have something to show you!" Heather steps out from behind the corner and twirls.

"Oh my goodness, honey!" Deirdre shrieks, embracing her niece. "You're all grown up. I can't believe it. I remember when you . . . "

Heather usually doesn't listen to her aunt's tangents, and today is no different. Instead, she focuses on shaking out the dress and flipping her hair. This is Heather's time to shine. Not that she won't be a front runner throughout the entire Selection, of course.

* * *

_*Aria DuBois of Calgary, Three*_

**If she's** honest, Aria expected much less of a turnout. It's been hard to overcome her family's reputation. They're known as the weird ones, just slightly off their rockers.

It all started when nice, upstanding Jason DuBois met little Shannon Fulmer, the painfully shy introvert from the tiny family by the lake. The next surprise was Jay, the lovechild. Jason and Shannon rushed to seal the deal, holding a private ceremony that was crashed by Shannon's own mother, the famous writer. Next thing anyone knew, there was a novel entitled _Secrets: The True Story Of Ivory Fulmer's Very Own Family_, which included the bonus tale of Mayella DuBois, Jason's clinically depressed sister. The book was an instant bestseller.

Everyone's who's anyone in Calgary knows to stay away from the DuBois family. They're crazy. They're psycho.

But at Aria's farewell party, the room is chock-full of people. Dressed in their finest gowns and most priceless jewels, downing glasses of champagne, each makes a point of approaching Aria, kissing her hand, and thanking her for the invitation. It's almost alien, and Aria definitely isn't used to it. In fact, it's a little too unbelievable.

Adjusting her short velvet dress, Aria spins around and makes her way towards her grandmother. Ivory Fulmer is leaning against a wall, gripping a glass of red wine. At the age of seventy, Ivory is weaker than she used to be. But her personality is as intimidating as ever.

"Don't you think all this is _vulgar_?" Ivory says in her deep, throaty voice.

"That's rich, Grandma," Aria replies. She's bitter, but she's not going to attract attention if she can help it. "Considering you threw the biggest party this side of Illéa has basically ever seen when you published that ridiculous book."

"Such a waste of resources," Ivory plows on as though her granddaughter hadn't spoken a word. "When this could go to starving children in Dakota and Baffin."

"Please don't treat me like this when you've done the same thing," Aria mutters. "This is a happy day, and you just don't want your family to enjoy themselves when you aren't. Your career has come to the end of its tether, so you'll resort to this instead."

Suddenly, the girl who uses the treadmill next to Aria at the gym squeals, "Hey! You look so gorgeous today. Are you excited to head to the palace?"

Aria smirks at her grandmother before turning away and responding, "Absolutely. It's time for me to leave, you know? Move on to bigger and better things."

The girl grins. "I've been thinking of becoming a writer . . . er, a journalist. Would you mind if I asked a few questions?"

Aria smiles in return. "Of course you can, hon. Shoot."

"What do you think of the royal family?"

Aria bites her lip. Although she believes that her nation would function better under a republic, or at least a true democracy, she's never said it out loud. If her opinions drift up to the aristocracy, she might be executed. "I think," she begins carefully, "that they are running the country to the best of their ability, and we've been making a lot of advances since the crowning of King Maxon."

She nods. "What about the rebels? Will you speak against them at the palace?"

Aria's never been closely affected by the rebels, so she isn't sure. But what if this girl has? "The rebels are horrible, and of course I will advocate for rebel cleansing at the castle. Why wouldn't I?"

"Well said. One last question, Lady Aria: what's your opinion of Illéa as a whole?"

"I could not appreciate this country more." Graciously, Aria flourishes her hand and excuses herself.

* * *

**this took longer than it should have. but the next chapter will be up quickly.**

**reviews mean a lot to me, especially if you'll give me an opinion on this: should all the girls get a point of view before i do doubles? or should important characters get more than one point of view, even if all the girls haven't had a chance yet?**

**1.) who is your favorite girl out of these three (and, optionally, why)?**

**2.) who is your least favorite girl out of these three (and, optionally, why)?**

**3.) did you like the chapter in general? did you dislike it? please give it a rating from 1 to 10 (1 is the worst, 10 is the best).**

_**3 / 14 / 15**_

**~ joyana ~**


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